All The King's Men
by Alpha Ori
Summary: Join the new High King and his Constables on a new journey in search of knowledge and enlightenment - a perilous mission that will take them into the lands of men. Part of The Protege series.
1. Chapter 1

All the King's Men

PROLOGUE: textures upon a living tapestry

_Her heart hammered in her chest and she moved her hand to cover it, to protect it, that the thumping vital rhythm never leave her…_

Her eyes were drawn to them all, as if some unseen force had taken control, moving them at will, and she was unable, or unwilling, to wrench them away; the sensations that coursed through her now pulsing veins were too intense, too pleasurable, and too agonizingly stimulating to even try – every nerve end alive with the thrill of life – and love.

Velvet encased their strong, hard bodies; caressing booted ankles, softly brushing arms embraced by leather and metal, protected by age-old words of mystic wisdom. Some wore deep blue or grey, others a familiar moss green, and yet another, a rich burgundy that brought to mind other times no less splendorous.

It was fitting, she mused, for velvet was a hardy cloth, difficult to break unless cut. It was beauteous fragility, yet also hard, unbreakable fibre – just as they were…

It was almost as if their hearts, their noble, hardened, hearts were of velvet. Their beauty, sacrifice and friendship, their soft words spoken in love, and their yearning for peace and harmony that only war craft and death could bring about – all this was velvet. The hard smoothness, the strength behind the façade of exquisiteness and fragility – thus was velvet. Thus were the King's men.

Her eyes traveled over their shoulders, down to their hips and the tips of their boots. Steel … It was cold and hard, forged from the heat of fire – the very soul of passion. Frigid, in spite of its origins - born of warmth its strength was cool – and yet so feeling. Liberator of the oppressed in its compassion, sharp ice before a flaming, righteous heart. Steel is their resolve, their fist, their determination.

Sparkling chestnut eyes moved to their hair; pale blond, silver blonde, chestnut, raven black. Rivers of silken hues that lay upon their velvet cloaks; it teased their biceps, caressed the pommels of their legendary blades that sat high upon their strong backs, and even brushed the silken waistband of _him,_ the one that so drew her, that she had so longed to see.

Silk… such sacrifice for but a minute square of coveted cloth. Sacrifice they had suffered so many times, would continue to endure until their mission was done. And yet what madness would lead one to liken silk with the traits of a warrior? Nay, not madness – _understanding_. Silk is what makes the heart feel when reason dictates it must not. Silk is elegance unparalleled – it is quiet understanding, it is beauty in fluid movement.

The Sylvan woman's eyes now moved to the powerful war bows that crossed their shoulders. Wood…the living substance of her beloved forest home – its _essence_. It was hard, yet pliant, flexible, deadly when wielded, vulnerable when burned – just like their hearts, she mused. It was a perfect combination most of the time, save when too much weight would snap it, or infection would hollow it out unto slow, but unavoidable destruction.

Her eyes focused once more upon the whole, aware that this vision would not last forever… just a little longer, she smiled and hoped …

These peerless warriors were all these things. The softness of velvet was protected by steel, and its own, intrinsic coldness was ameliorated by the smoothness and warmth of silk, whose sacrifice is countered by the steadfastness of wood. None were perfect in and of themselves, but together, they would be unstoppable, the perfect balance of all these things, invincible before the darkness that was now encroaching upon the kingdoms of light, the same darkness that _they _would stand against, before it was all over.

She chanced a final, loving glance at the one she had not seen since he had been a child, and the vision began to waver, in time with her quivering lips and her still thumping heart. A single tear escaped her eye, and the objects of her devotion blurred until water covered them, and they were gone.

Turning her head slowly from the life-sized tapestry to the fascinating visage of Väire, she smiled in utter awe, yet a hint of sad acceptance tempered it.

"Thank you, my Lady. Thank you for this fleeting glimpse…," she whispered.

"You are welcome, both to my help and, soon, to Valinor at last, amongst the living once more – proud mother."

_Her heart hammered in her chest and she moved her hand to cover it, to protect it, that the thumping vital rhythm never leave her… never again._

END

Coming soon: All The King's Men. Join the new High King, his Herald and Constables, on a perilous journey towards knowledge and understanding – a journey into the lands of men.


	2. Route Map

CHAPTER ONE: Route Map

_And so, as Vairë's tapestry froze, its images now eternal upon the woven fabric - no longer living - and its spectator had left the cold, cold halls of Mandos, our vision permeates the canvass, and spirals eastwards - to Middle Earth – an expectant land poised upon the brink of mighty events. Yet before they could transpire, there were tasks to be achieved, and great deeds to be carried out._

_This is the story of one of those tasks…_

The heavy, dull thud of cantering horses, the clink of finely-honed metal and the creak of well-worked leather, heralded the king's party as the five warriors entered their fifteenth day of travel towards the lands of Eregion, and then, in search of the Dunedain rangers of the North, reportedly somewhere around the lands of Forenost.

At the fore, rode the High King himself, flanked by his High Constable Glorfindel, his Herald, Elladan and his Greenwood and Lothlorien Constables Galdithion and Gildor. However, on _this_ mission, these great lords would be nothing but inconsequential elves on an unimportant errand for their Lord, a lord who, to the eyes of humans, was neither of consequence nor renown…

Fin, Gil, Gal, Hwindo and Rafno - this is how they would be known for the rest of their journey. They could not risk their true names being identified with their ranks, however unlikely that was; it would reveal the military nature of their task, and that would lead to suspicion and misunderstanding, the consequences of which they all understood only too well.

And so, onwards they cantered, slowly, for they were still upon the high, rock-strewn ground of their descent from the mountain's frozen embrace, and if it had been frigid on the high pass, it was now a crisp early winter morning, the sun still lazy behind the low-hanging cloud that hovered over the last of their mountain trail. It was dull and grey, and yet their hearts were light and their morale high, for soon, the terrain would change once more and they would stand upon the lands of Eregion – and descend into the world of the second-born, and the unpredictable…

_**Gildor Inglorion, Lorien Constable**_

He was on the road once more, yet this time it was not as the leader of a rag-tag group of estranged Noldor, but as one of the King's trusted men. The now acknowledged brother of Galadriel wore the grey sash of Lorien, showing his authority as her military Constable in the new United Army – and the King's trust in his ability to lead the Galadhrim into battle. It felt good, he mused, to be moved by a purpose greater than one's self, to be a part of what was to come, to be recognized as worthy, by one's lord and the powers themselves.

As he cantered beside his Greenwood counterpart, he cast his mind back to the days previous to their departure in Lorien – to the days of study, discussion, and meticulous preparation for the mission before them.

Gildor and Elladan had contributed a great amount of detail and knowledge to their briefings, on the land and those that inhabited it. Both had met and rode with the Dunedain, but it had been Gildor's extensive experience of the terrain and its people that had finally sealed their route map, and their strategy…

West, towards the Misty Mountains, over the pass and then down into the lands of Eregion. West again to the nearest village, to replace provisions, and then West once more into Eriador. From there, they would travel North towards Anor, and Fornost, in search of the Dunedain, for it was the king's desire to make their acquaintance. They were to meet their chieftain, and, more specifically, ascertain whether the future king of men had yet been born, for it was this child that would trigger the accomplishment of their own destinies, and as such, it was paramount that relations between their two peoples should be established. Of course the men of Numenor were no strangers to the elves, indeed they shared a common ancestry. Nay, the problem would not be with _them_ but with their ephemeral brothers and sisters.

This time, Gildor would be crossing the mountains further south than he had done before, for they had departed from Lorien. The land on the other side was a mystery to him, albeit he, more than any of them, could make a calculated guess at its layout. It would be hardy and fertile, hilly and rocky in some areas. There was great beauty to be found in Eregion, just as there were areas of mindless destruction, of forest fires born of carelessness, of putrid cesspits where senseless battle had taken place, and bodies had been left to fester. A land of contrasts, he had explained – just as humans themselves were; mortal yet vibrant, able yet so often careless, fierce in their love, and yet so quick to sever life.

He wondered then, if he had been clear enough with his words. And then he reminded himself that there was still time – one, maybe two more days before they would leave the mountains behind – time enough to impart his knowledge, to warn his brothers one more time before mistakes could be made.

Turning his face to the wind, his silver hair streamed behind him as he urged his steed a little faster, drawing abreast of his brothers once more, a contented smile breaking upon his lips as the zest for adventure rushed through his veins.

_**Elladan Elrondion, Herald**_

Gildor seemed happy, mused Elladan – or Rafno, as he was to be called from now on. He had seen the changes that recognition and purpose had brought with it. Strange, he mused, for he had never looked upon Inglorion as his great uncle – yet this is what he was, had officially become, since Galadriel had crowned him a prince of the Noldor.

Pushing his deep blue cloak behind him, his mind strayed to other events that had transpired upon their nascent journey – namely, the long, arduous days he had spent feigning indifference to the nature of their mission, although to what success he was unsure. Galdithion knew him better than any of them, save for Glorfindel, and had a deeper, more intimate understanding, of his undoubtedly convoluted mind. He had confided his darkest secrets and weaknesses to the Sylvan, had told him of his once hidden feelings of shame and inadequacy that stemmed from his human heritage, however insignificant it was.

As a Peredhil, Elladan had travelled to Eregion and Eriador with his brother once, in search of his mortal origins. That, too, had been a journey of learning and understanding. Imladris was not far, however well hidden it was, and both brothers had felt the pull of curiosity – seeking out and riding with the chieftain of the Dunedain, their uncle's people. Needless to say they had learned much – of the passionate, compulsive hearts of these fleeting souls, and the darkness that could fester within, given the chance.

His far-removed human ancestry had not so much brought physical or intellectual disadvantage, but mockery, albeit it had been mostly from himself. Humans were weak and fickle, this he had somehow decided in his childhood. They were capable of the worst atrocities, and if that were not sufficient – they died and caused suffering in the wake of their demise. It made him feel inadequate, however much he knew it was not true – it was a last remnant of his previous life where feelings of failure had assailed him – had made him a mediocre warrior and a submissive brother. And yet one look at himself in the pristine clear pools of the High Pass, had reminded him that _that_ Elladan had gone, for he had been transformed, and he was unsure no more, at least that is what he had thought.

He still doubted the second-born, with the exception of the Dunedain. To Elladan, these men of Numenor were different, for it seemed to him they possessed a sense of honor and sacrifice that most mortals did not, almost as if they were of another race.

Many times had he blessed the day he had put himself in for the warrior exchange program that had been born of the first Spring Festival in Imladris, the one that had allied, finally, the lands of his father and those of Thranduil. It had been that year, together with Melven in The Company, that had forged the future Herald to the High King.

His friendship with Legolas, or rather Hwindo, had been fast and deep, a natural bonding between two souls that understood each other so well and soon, they had called each other 'brother'. Rafno smiled at the memory, before turning his mind back to their mission once more.

He knew that the Sylvans, and even Glorfindel, would need to rely on Gildor and his own intelligence on this mission – he only hoped he had been explicit enough in his warnings…

And as for himself, he would try to maintain an open mind, look upon this mission as a second opportunity to find beauty and honour in the race of men, to convince himself that that, minute part of himself, was no less valid than his own, essentially elven nature.

**Glorfindel of Gondolin, High Constable**

Two weeks of travelling – it had been quiet – strangely so, for they had encountered the enemy but a handful of times, and in small enough numbers to cause no problems at all. He would have counted himself lucky, save for the fact that he knew there was a reason for it. If the enemy was not in the mountains, they were in the foothills, and if they were not there – then they were somewhere else, and wherever that was, they would find them – sooner or later.

He had tried hard, from the very first day until now, not to be over-protective of the king, and for the most part, although it had cost him, he believed he had managed not to upset Legolas too much. Indeed, Gildor had proven a surprising ally, given Glorfindel had once been the Noldo's lover, for he would place a calming hand on his shoulder or his thigh, when Legolas would give him that unmistakable look that silently said, 'stop coddling'. Elladan and Galdithion would simply laugh and get about their chores, while Legolas would smirk and then seek him out for a hidden peck upon the cheek.

Glancing to his left he spotted Galdithion, chestnut hair whipping playfully around him as he bounced boisterously upon his feisty mount, face meeting his own squarely, his eyebrows reaching his hairline and his mouth quirked upwards insolently.

"What is it, _Constable_," asked Glorfindel, a little irritably, for he had lost his delightful train of thought.

"_You_, my Lord, for you wear a toothy grin I have only ever seen upon my future law-brother Elrohir after his cups – I yearn to read your thoughts for they seem… _interesting_," he said cheekily, before cantering a little way forward so that he could not hear Glorfindel's answer, a silvery chuckle dancing upon the breeze. Indeed a quick glance over his shoulder and the High Constable's mouth was indeed moving most emphatically, albeit the Greenwood constable could no longer hear him and he waved impishly before turning his face to the fore.

**Galdithion, Greenwood Constable**

He chuckled to himself one last time before resuming his place in their formation and his mind turned to the task at hand. It was his first journey as a Lord, as Greenwood Constable in the United Army. He had much to learn, and was already learning it, from Glorfindel mainly, who had taken it upon himself to instruct both himself and Gildor on the finer arts of command. Gal was delighted at the arrangement, and he knew Gildor was too, at least to an extent, for the Noldo was proud to a fault, and found it harder to accept criticism, especially when it was not particularly constructive.

Gal knew that this was also due, partly, to the fact that Gildor and Glorfindel had once been lovers, that Glorfindel's new lover was present, and however much Gildor respected the king, liked him, and even loved him when allowed – his acute sense of pride would sometimes play him foul.

He thought then of his own lover, and his great fortune that he would soon be bonded to Elladan Elrondion. It had once seemed surreal to him, impossible that a common elf like himself could aim so high. Now, he simply beamed at the memories as they skipped merrily before his mind's eye. He chanced a glance to his left then, to devour the sight of that dark, noble beauty, the deadly warrior, renowned healer, and sworn brother to the king – his, all _his_.

As if of their own accord, his eyes slid back to Glorfindel, who now watched him with a satisfied smirk on his face and a wicked smile splitting his face – and to his horror, Galdithion realized that he had been caught at his own game, for his face did indeed wear …. a toothy grin.

**Legolas Thranduilion, High King**

Hwindo mentally snorted at his friend's woodland antics, for the elf relished in mocking Glorfindel as the king's future consort. He had not heard his lover's scathing retort, of course, but there really was no need, and he smirked again.

It was good to have these moments of laughter and light-heartedness, for things would turn dark soon enough, he wagered.

He had taken Gildor and Elladan's warnings most seriously, and had conceded to all their suggestions regarding security and tactics. However, he had been surprised that there should be such radical differences between the men of Esgaroth and those of Eregion.

Aye there were differences between the Sylvan and the Noldo, but they did not seem so far removed. Legolas had travelled to Laketown on trade missions for his father on several ocasions, and was well-versed in their politics and culture. True, he was aware that Laketown was but one prosperous area, which had grown in economic strength together with the Woodland realm. The truth was that their citizens were, quite simply, accustomed to the first born, just as the elves were to the lakemen.

Elladan had warned him that where they travelled now, he would find much more ignorance, fear and intolerance. He would find poverty such that families were not able to care for their own children, hardship that drove many to waylay and steal, even unto other, more serious crimes.

He heaved a sigh, hoping against hope that this side of humanity would not be as bad as his friends had portrayed. There was surely goodness and beauty in their world, he said to himself, for if there was not, then what chance did they stand of allying Elvendom to men in search of precisely these things – if they could not _appreciate _them, why would they even _want_ to fight for them?

….

Midday, and the desire to rest and eat, led Hwindo to signal with his hand. Their descent had brought with it more temperate weather conditions, and a land that turned greener with every step they took. Trees emerged, hardy grass began to carpet the once unyielding, rocky terrain and a light spring was back to their steeds' gaits. It smelt fresh and crisp - now was as good a time as any to stop and refresh themselves after the physically demanding journey over the pass.

There was no danger here, or so the trees had told the Forest Lord, indeed it was beautiful, heralding an optimistic start to this most fascinating journey they had taken upon themselves to complete. Spirits were high and healthy, as were their appetites, and so they dismounted and slid their bags from their horses backs, rummaging inside as they moved to sit together in a circle.

Hwindo was chuckling with Rafno, who clapped him on the back, bursting once more into muted laughter that began with a mighty snort - at what, Gildor could not tell.

"Will you share the joke, Rafno?" invited Gil as he stuffed bread into his mouth.

"Hwindo here was telling me of that braggart, Damrod of Gondor…"

"That sour-faced human that Ecthelion dragged along with him?" asked Gal.

"Aye, that one. He had the gall to confront Hwindo here in the gardens of Lothlorien."

"What?!" thundered Glorfindel. "Why didn't you say so?" accused Fin, for this was the first he had heard of it.

"Unto what purpose," asked Hwindo, "so you could skewer him upon your blades and cause a diplomatic incident?" he asked sarcastically.

Fin had the good grace to remain silent, for had he known what had transpired, he would indeed have skewered the arrogant bastard.

"Well," continued Rafno, "in his hysterical accusations, he accused Hwindo of '_fucking men'_!" he said theatrically.

They all laughed and even jeered, before Hwindo himself held up his hands.

"It is indeed, absurd," he began, to which the others verbalized their doubt at his words, "absurd because to my utmost shame, I have _never_ fucked a man!" he emphasized.

"Oh come now, Hwindo – _you_ have never had a man?" said Gildor disbelievingly.

"Nay, I have not – have _you_?" he asked, leaning forward avidly for the answer. Indeed silence fell.

"Well, I must admit only once," said Gildor, schooling his features to rigorous neutrality as he sipped from his goblet. "It was not unpleasant," he droned as the others snorted.

"Well, said Glorfindel, "we will have little time for that on this mission; not all human cultures are accepting of same-sex relations, it seems; they say it is … an _aberration_.

"That very _thought_ is an aberration," snorted Rafno as he sipped at his tea. "How can same-sex relations be abhorrent? I mean, if a male _can_ feel attracted to another male – then in what way is that … unnatural? It makes no sense to me, I swear. I have human blood yet I bless the day I chose immortality."

"As do I," said Gal, somewhat meekly, to which the others cooed and then laughed as their brother's face turned crimson. Elladan, however, did not laugh – he simply smiled in quiet contentment, before leaning over and stealing a kiss from his betrothed.

"None of that, _Herald_ – not in the land of men. I would not see the King's men imprisoned and slanted as debauched demons," laughed Fin along with the rest, yet once it had died down, Rafno added a more serious note to their friendly banter.

"Seriously, my friends. We must all watch our terms of endearment, those gestures of affection we are so used to giving – this is a mission of peace and learning, not of indoctrination, however strange and offensive these beliefs may be…. The key, the root of the question, or so my father believes, is their irrepressible need to perpetuate themselves, as if immortality is to be had through the begetting of offspring."

"Well I will not blame them for that, for who would wish to _die_? Who would wish to live their lives knowing it will all end? To me it is unfathomable," said Gal, his face a reflection of his complete and utter failure to comprehend the nature of mortality, indeed the very need for it. Rafno's face remained neutral and he said nothing, save for his eyes, that expressed what his voice did not. His uncle had broken his father's heart and for what? The privilege of death? He had never understood it, and he wondered if he ever would.

"Well," said Fin, his voice low and strong, "'tis settled then. Caution my friends, for the consequences of our own ignorance or carelessness may lead us to disaster. We have come here in search of alliance, nothing more," he ended, the conversation having quelled their joyous moods.

"I also suggest," added the High Constable, "that we soon change our attire. We are now close to Human settlements. We should not seem as warriors, give no outward signs of opulence or wealth. We will do well to show ourselves as humble servants…"

"And that is what we are," added Galdithion, his tone breaking the solemnity that had taken grip of them all, "servants to our Lord Legolas, wherever he may be…" he smiled – and they all did, bringing back just a little of their lost joy.

….

They had been cantering for some time, and had now slowed to a walk. It was as good a time as any to learn of their first destination – Crossmoor, decided Rafno as he unrolled the parchment, and felt more than saw, his companions draw close around him, keeping him in the centre as they continued their slow walk.

"Crossmoor is the first human post due West from the Misty mountains. According to the chronicles of Dernfara, it is estimated to host four hundred souls. However, it has been recorded that Crossmoor is an obligatory stop for travelers both from the mountains, and those crossing from Dunland. In consequence, it is well-populated, albeit half of its inhabitants are visitors from other lands, other cultures …

Dernfara continues to explain their political structure. They favour a council of five members with one leader; their election process however, is unknown. He also registered the presence of guards – presumably servants of the council – peace keepers, but the information is patchy at best.

There is very little in the way of literature on Crossmoor," said Elladan, "indeed I was capable of finding only these two chronicles. However they do paint a picture that is startlingly similar – perhaps I should read literally…"

Gal looked to Gil and then Fin, before turning his now apprehensive face to Hwindo, who listened attentively, before prompting Elladan once more.

"Go on… we are listening."

With a steadying breath, Elladan stretched out the parchment once more and read the literal words of Dernfara…

_Crossmoor is a world of intrigue and corruption, of fraudulent masters and opportunistic travelers. A multi-cultural cauldron where morals and ethics have no place, and observation is the key to survival. Doubt them all and you may rise to see the dawn. Beware then, weary traveler, for though necessity may lead you there on your own two feet, your ignorance, or naivety, may lead you out with your feet before you._

_Pass by inconspicuously, stay only what time is necessary, and leave with all haste."_

Elladan slowly raised his eyes to those of his companions, realizing only then that they had all stopped their forward motion, staring at him now in something akin to disbelief.

"Who is the chronicler?" asked Gal in a rather small voice. "I can recall no Dernfara in my readings in the Greenwood."

"That should not surprise you, Gal, for you see - Dernfara, is _human_…" said Rafno carefully.

And if before they had all looked worried, now, their eyes flashed in alarm, for if a human could speak so lowly of one of their own villages….

And so it was, that after they had found a suitable spot to camp for the night, they changed their clothing, removed rings of office, even their earrings and other visible piercings in the case of Hwindo. They were ready – clad in simple leggings, boots and tunics, their grey-green cloaks covering their weapons and their faces most effectively.

Few would have guessed their true identities, and yet the men of Crossmoor were cunning and shrewd, it seemed; observant if there was something to be had – it might well take more than a change of clothing to fool them – those who would kill but for an elven trophy, or failing that, a fist of gold coin - or a forbidden caress …

…

**Notes:**

Visit this great interactive map to follow their route. Please note that Crossmoor is a fictitious village that lies towards the south of Eregion.

**Character list**

**Hwindohtar** (Hwindo), the whirling warrior, Captain of The Company, the Greenwood's elite southern patrol – Also known as Legolas Thranduilion, High King

**Fin** – Glorfindel, High Constable, future King Consort

**Rafnohtar** (Rafno), the winged warrior, member of The Company – also known as Elladan Elrondion, Herald

**Gil** – Gildor Inglorion, Lorien Constable, acknowledged half-brother of Galadriel.

**Gal** – Galdithion, Greenwood Constable and childhood friend of Legolas, betrothed of Elladan Elrondion, and future Lord of Imladris.


	3. The Ashen Plains

CHAPTER TWO: The Ashen Plains

In the late morning gloom, the King's men sat in silence upon their steeds, as still and exquisite as the marble renderings that lined the Noldorin halls of Imladris, in spite of the dowdy clothing they now wore. Elven and equine breath frosted upon the chill morning breeze, and a thin, nascent ground mist crawled surreptitiously towards their feet; slowly, tentatively, as if it had a mind of its own and thought it would be burned should it touch them, and yet unable to resist reaching out its frosty, wispy hands but for a taste of that which it sought to engulf, to possess.

Their incredulous eyes did not stop to wonder at its sudden appearance though, nor the way it swirled and snaked around their horses' ankles, for they were too taken by what lay before them, staring in stupor at the horrific, scarred terrain which had, quite simply, appeared before them, as wine stains a beautifully embroidered tablecloth. It was a gaping hole, a hideous mirage that marred the otherwise lovely countryside they had so far encountered on their way down from the pass, and Elladan thought it unnatural.

Turning back disbelievingly to the lush green land they had just stepped out of, and then once more to the fore, their uncomprehending eyes focused worriedly upon a sea of open, barren wasteland, stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a grey, bleak moor, scattered here and there by low hardy bushes and flattened rocks, elements that would do nothing to conceal an elf, and by the extension of this nightmare dreamscape, they had all immediately realized with sinking hearts that they would need to spend at least one night within it – visible to everyone, and everything, _vulnerable_.

A cold chill ran the length of Galdithion's rigid spine, and Elladan immediately turned his face towards him, his eyes searching and finding the foreboding in his Sylvan lover's eyes. He wisely chose to stay silent, for if Gal had felt it, so had the others; indeed had he himself not shuddered at this, grotesque echo of the king's homeland? It was dangerous land where attack could very well lead to disaster and they all knew it. Indeed Elladan had not forgotten the Chronicle of Dernfara, and he was sure those prophetic words were now dancing arrogantly, before his companions' eyes, as they were before his own, mocking and snickering at their considerable predicament. Only the danger had come sooner than any of them could have imagined – for now it seemed the _real _danger wasn't surviving that bubbling, seething cauldron of races, religions and philosophies, or lack thereof - the peril was just _getting_ to Crossmoor.

Gone now, were the last vestiges of friendly chatter and banter, the carefree happiness that had taken them all just hours before. Gone was the thrill of yearned-for adventure, the brotherly fun and albeit temporary absence of lordly protocol. Now, they were deep in disciplined concentration, as silence seemed only to intensify the underlying feeling of dread, for it was almost tangible, thick upon the close air they now breathed a little faster than they had before. Only the creak and clank of their gear, and the thud of their horses' hooves trespassed upon the fretful silence as they slowly, reluctantly moved forward, leaving the springy green grass behind, and stepping onto dry, dusty soil and stone, every shade of grey replacing blue and green, until finally, even their peripheral vision was enveloped and they stood upon the eerily silent moors.

''Tis unhealthy', murmured Elladan as they walked cautiously along, calibrating their senses to these new surroundings. It was as if a different world had swallowed them; this was not what he had been expecting at all, and one quick glance at Gildor confirmed he was not alone in his surprise. The Sylvans would assume this to be normal, he realized, yet even _they_ wore puzzled frowns, as their heads moved here and there, registering every detail that was to be had as their minds almost visibly worked through this most unexpected turn of events. They were, after all, neighbours of Dol Guldur, experts in the nature of darkness and its many facets. This he knew first hand, for had he himself not ridden with The Company? Had he not touched the very face of darkness, tasted it, acrid and bitter upon his own tongue, only to spit it out in nauseated disgust?

"It is a plain of death…" whispered Hwindo as his eyes lost their focus, his mind somewhere none of them could say. Elladan wondered if the king was having an episode of foresight, accustomed as he was to his father's bouts of clairvoyance. It was not unheard of for others to have the gift, but it certainly was not normal – and although Legolas had many skills, foresight was not one of them, and so he watched and listened attentively.

His nose suddenly tickled him, so violently he took his hand to it and rubbed vigorously, until understanding suddenly hit him as his eyes turned down to the ground, realizing they stepped not upon dry soil, but ash.

"A fire," he said in sudden realization, as Legolas turned towards him and nodded solemnly, his eyes swimming in unshed despair, his face radiating the deep grief he felt – so much it made Elladan want to take him to his breast.

"Yes – their voices linger, muffled and confused, I can understand only their suffering…" whispered the forest lord, and by all the Gods it seemed to Elladan that he would cry as he and the others witnessed the heart-felt lament of the Forest Lord…

"They know only that they are all but gone – and they understand it not – have no notion of what has taken them. The ground murmurs beneath the ruined top soil, beneath the charred roots where some veins remain untouched. They burrow deeper, seeking humidity and sustenance, comfort and reassurance - and finding little…" he dropped from his horse and knelt upon the ruined land, digging his hand into it and moving forward, almost as if he would taste it…

"'Tis not like the Greenwood, for they were warned, knew their time was limited, thus it had been murmured for many years – a simple question of time. Yet here, here they have been… exterminated, burned by _unholy fire_," he hissed, as he turned back and locked his eyes on Glorfindel, whose own snapped up to meet them, defensively almost, until they lost that painful intensity and the light of understanding filled them.

They were still for many minutes, their silence respectful as Legolas regained his feet and his horse once more, not bothering to dust the ash from his knees. Elladan and Galdithion, each at his side, watched as Glorfindel drew his horse abreast of him, seeking his eyes and holding the sad gaze with his own comprehending eyes.

"I must return here, one day, and lift this veil of darkness that cloaks the beauty beneath, for 'tis not only fire that has taken them," he sighed, as if fatigued, and then raked his open-fingered hand through his loosely tied hair in frustration, "this fire was no accident caused by unwary humans, for it stinks of poison – the acrid stench of sulphur dances upon my tongue and turns my guts – 'tis the stench of the dark arts. He does not turn this land for spite nor amusement," he continued, now facing his companions, seeking their eyes out one by one. "He turns it for the _hunt_ – there is something about this land that has attracted his attention."

Elladan considered the king's words and saw the logic in them, albeit only his king could feel the darkness within nature so acutely. But then Elladan was not going to gainsay him on that, for if Legolas said it was so, it was indeed so.

The High Constable spoke not at all, and yet his quiet presence said much, and Elladan allowed a discreet smile to light his chiseled face for just a moment, before it was gone and his characteristic frown of concentration lodged itself in place once more.

As the hours passed and the scenery changed not at all, their moods followed suit; introspect, yet alert. Elladan wondered at Legolas' reaction to the land, for in the Greenwood he had been nothing but hardened and impervious to the wiles of darkness, yet here ... here it had reduced him almost to tears. Why? he wondered as his mind delved its memory, searching for the clues that would answer his question. He remembered a conversation he had had with Hwindo some years back, on his warrior exchange year with The Company, when the Forest Lord had explained about their visit into an Avarin village upon the very borders of Dol Guldur …

_They did not speak to me, but they did convey their emotions. I sorted through them as they assailed me and I began to understand the state in which they found themselves – they were lost, however much the Avari refused to admit it. They were disoriented, awash in limbo, yet somehow understanding that their death was near at hand. I could not reach them with language, for they were too far removed from the light, and yet I felt the deepest of pity, a heavy, dull ache in my heart for their plight, for this their last conscious cry of rage, of sadness, of involuntary surrender, for they wished to live, and yet understood that they could not, not here._

Elladan thought he understood, for there – they had known, it had been an inevitable result of the encroaching darkness. Yet now, upon these plains, a crushing, suffocating sense of pity had overwhelmed him - he had cried for their shock, their incomprehension, their naïve, almost childlike minds asking _why_, and receiving no answer, until now…

The veiled sun was high overhead when Elladan was catapulted back to the present by Gildor, who held up his hand in a signal to stop, his gaze fixed intensely upon the land below his steed.

After a few moments, the Lorien Constable dismounted and knelt upon the barren land, his hand reaching out to dust inquisitively over the low growing shrub, the ground mist now thinner and patchier than it had been before.

"A party of at least eight passed this way not two hours past. Horses, two abreast…"

"This would be the logical way from the Pass to the nearest village, 'tis not surprising surely," said Legolas, only half convinced of his seemingly logical words.

"Hwindo," corrected Gildor, "'tis not their presence that is surprising, but the fact that they seem to be trying to _hide_ it…" he trailed off, his silver head turning to look the King meaningfully in the eye.

"They could be Rangers, of course," continued the constable, "either that, or they are up to no good I would wager."

"Then come my brothers. Let us proceed with the utmost caution," said Glorfindel steadily. "We may well meet up with them before we arrive at Crossmoor. Let us hope they are simply being cautious…", he said, almost too lightly. The lingering stares of four disbelieving warriors remained upon him for a time, before they all turned to the fore once more in grim determination, urging their horses into a cautious canter over the moors, for there was still some light, and the closer they were to the Valar-forsaken village of Crossmoor before the moonless night engulfed them, so much the better.

Galdithion turned his concerned face to Elladan, who met it squarely, and then smiled a little too tightly. He had wanted to reassure Galdithion, yet all he had managed was a twisted grimace that did nothing at all to lighten the Greenwood Constable's heart. He could not help it, for a growing sense of anxiety was building in his chest, one he could not rid himself of.

…...

They did not stop until the sun had gone and an all pervading mantle of suffocating darkness had descended upon the grey land. It brought with it a sense of dread and gnawing anxiety, for something simply did not sit right about it – the land, the _feel_ of it, it was all wrong. And as if to prove they were right, the dense ground fog had returned, much thicker now as it summarily swept in from the mountain, covering the barren ground and converging on them, masking their own boots up to their shins. Elladan shivered as it brought to mind that eerie scene in the Mirkwood, when the Avarin villagers had emerged from their flets at the break of dawn, their hair in disarray, their bare feet invisible. It had made him lurch with anxiety at the time, for they had seemed as feetless specters, hovering over the wailing, agonizing land. Indeed, the new moon meant there was no light to reflect off the strange humidity, and the wisps of darkness turned into a macabre dance of curling and swirling arms that brought to mind the futile plea of desperate spirits in search of mercy and release. How deeply Mirkwood had marked him, he realized, how it had burrowed into his very soul.

With their horses now gone, sent away until recalled, they sat it utter silence, almost complete darkness, with only themselves and the strange, beguiling fog that seeped into their leggings – it was their only hope to pass by unnoticed, however unlikely that had been from the very moment they had set their despairing eyes on this plain of death, as the king had called it.

Although his body rested, Elladan's mind was awash with questions, albeit his wits were still very much about him, in spite of appearances.

This was unexpected indeed. True he and Gildor had thoroughly briefed their Sylvan companions, warned them in no uncertain terms of the dangers of the second born, of their failings, their weakness. Yet he had failed – or had been ignorant, of this tainted darkness that penetrated his bones – this was a _dark_ enemy, not the product of ignorance and hardship, but of wizardry – dark magic. He had studied Gildor's face as best he could in the failing darkness, and he had known immediately that he was just as perplexed as himself. This was new then, something that had developed in recent years. If darkness was at work here – there was a reason, the king had said as much. Yet it seemed to Elladan not so much a reason but a _threat _– a threat to Sauron himself – and suddenly, with tingling skin and quickened breath, the Herald understood. It was true then, he realized, their question had been answered - the infant _had_ been born, and the prince of darkness knew it – somehow.

This place was a trap, he realized. The area was strategic, for his enemies would approach these lands precisely at this point, or a little further North, and he wondered if there would be another similar area around there. He made a note to inform his father, for he would wager there was…

It was then, that a lonely howl echoed through the night, splitting the unnatural silence with a tinny resonance that set the herald's finer hairs on end, nerves tingling in dreaded anticipation once more. Five heads looked up, their bodies tensing in unison, waiting …. and yet nothing. Elladan and Legolas bent their heads once more, as Gildor and Galdithion relaxed a little but did not rest, and Glorfindel watched over them all.

Was he fortifying these lands then? Surrounding them with his still nascent defenses, ensuring that this, future threat, could not leave and thus monitor the child's life, his progress – know of his whereabouts? Aye, he would track him, control him, and then eliminate him when the time came – him and all his allies.

And then there it was again, one single voice – powerful, unyielding – a leader calling to his warriors. It sent a ripple of pure dread through them, for the sound seemed to call to some hidden place inside that triggered a deep, atavistic fear that could not be curbed by reason, nor by millennia of harsh training.

They tensed once more, hands reaching back to the reassuring feel of wood and metal, for the sound had seemed nearer than it had been, and yet they had heard nothing of the enemy's approach. It toyed with its prey then, thought Elladan; _close_ – enough to attack and kill and yet they held back, as if to purposefully prolong the unbearable feeling of dread – of base _fear_.

A silent signal from Glorfindel had them upon their feet, rising slowly and lithely from the ground, as if born of the dark fog that lapped incessantly at their feet. Standing in a defensive circle, their backs to each other, they slowly drew their bows and arrows, silently notching but not tensing, not yet.

As the minutes passed, and the hunters drew closer, Elladan cast one last desperate look around him, yet it was useless, as he knew it would be; there was no hint of light in any direction – they were simply too far away to seek refuge, or request aid. They were alone, alone with their weapons and their wits, as he now searched the space before him - but to no avail, for there was nothing to focus on.

It was then that his whole body tensed of its own accord, and his ears thrummed with a low-pitched whirring sound that increased as the seconds went by; he recognized this feeling … he was going to have a vision…

A sudden thud and snort sounded off to his right, and the sound disappeared as suddenly as it had taken him. He could feel his friends start, almost hear their racing hearts join his own as it pumped blood and adrenaline through his throbbing veins, tensing muscles and sharpening his other senses, just as he knew it was for the rest as they registered just how inexplicably close the heavy thud of paws upon the unyielding earth had become - their snorts of hot breath in the silence telling them they were inexplicably surrounded.

The wisps of darkness that clung to the ground swirled and circled as the beasts moved but did not show themselves, shielded as they were, cloaked from sharp elven eyes that sought frantically, yet saw nothing at all – they were blind – incapacitated, frightened.

A strangled exclamation escaped Gildor and the whoosh of a loosed arrow, followed by the twang of his bow and an ensuing thud, brought stunned silence and baited breath in its wake.

A strangled gasp escaped the warrior at his side – Gal? as a dark shadow collided with his chest, sending him reeling backwards. Yet before he could turn to help, something moved in his peripheral vision and he sliced his blade forward blindly, grimacing as it grated against something hard – bone, or teeth perhaps – it set his jaw tingling painfully as he pulled back and stabbed at where he imagined the beast to be. He was rewarded by a short yelp, before something brushed against his legs and he stabbed at it, his sword tip slicing into the ground uselessly.

Arrows flew but for fleeting seconds, for combat was too close and they drew their blades as they regained their feet and widened the circle. At a harsh command from Glorfindel, they blindly swirled their steel forwards in unison; once, twice, again and again. Some sliced into flesh while others careened uselessly into the air, only to be whirled forward once more. The sound of ripping cloth and a muffled gasp told the healer one of his companions was injured, and then a stifled moan as another was injured, yet the cry seemed more of frustration than of pain. Blades continued to swivel and zigzag and the sounds of harsh breathing, yelps and whines converged as the battle became more and more intense. Only the eyes and teeth gave them the slightest inkling as to where they were, not enough to avoid torn flesh and bitten limbs.

Elladan was hit by the sensation that these were not the sounds of open battle, but the desperate thrashing of elves who thought they would die – desperate, chaotic movements meant only to preserve their own lives.

Something clamped down on his ankle, but before it could pierce his flesh, he stabbed downwards and skewered the beast to the ground, before pulling it out with a cry of frustration and fury. Yet he was summarily thrown backwards as one of his companions crashed into him. They were losing this battle against an almost invisible enemy, he realized, before plunging his mighty sword into flesh once more.

Glorfindel commanded them to regain the circle and begin their forward swirling once more and although Elladan was skeptical, it was the only tactic that had worked, at least to an extent. Feeling the brush of Galdithion's hand against his own, and the strong shoulder of Glorfindel on the other, they took advantage of the short impasse to re-channel their energy, to stop defending and flailing uselessly in the dark, and start attacking. Elladan suddenly remembered his training in the Greenwood, when he had been blindfolded and then ordered to fight his opponent in hand-to-hand combat.

Glorfindel called their move once more, his voice low and commanding, defiant and confident and Elladan was empowered once more as he executed the forward swirling movement which, although he could not see, was carried out in perfect synchrony with his fellow warriors.

Screeches and yelps were their reward as they stepped back, and then lunged forward again, repeating the move, once more striking true - again and again - until there was suddenly nothing left before them and they stood ready in the darkness, breathing harshly through open mouths, wandering if they had prevailed - if the enemy had retreated. It was Legolas who told them it was so, and although Elladan knew not how he knew, he did not doubt it.

"We should light a fire…"

"Aye, do so, Gil," said Glorfindel, before adding, "are you well?" he murmured quietly, taking his friend's forearm in a commanding grip.

"I am in one piece, Fin," he said solemnly, his eyes slanting for a moment towards where he believed Legolas to be, and then moving away with his arm wavering before him, in search of a dry shrub to fuel his flint.

A nascent fire was soon crackling and hissing, its comforting amber glow waxing brighter as the temperature rose and a surprisingly delightful aroma infused the air around them. Elladan breathed deeply, unwittingly drawing attention to himself.

"We have no water to treat our injuries, although I, miraculously, have sustained _none_, he said, his tone almost disbelieving as his smirking twin's face came to his mind's eye, and Glorfindel snorted quietly.

The healer's eyes wandered over each of his companions with a critical eye. There was nothing he could do to heal them, but he could, at least, ensure that none of them would bleed to death. They had done well to send their horses away before the darkness had fallen, for however much they needed their supplies now, losing their mounts and vital provisions would have meant more days upon the moors, and perhaps even death.

His eyes settled upon Legolas, who shifted uncomfortably, stretching out one leg before him and separating the torn cloth of his leggings gingerly. Glorfindel sucked in a breath and Elladan was beside him in an instant, feeling the presence of Galdithion and Gildor behind him.

"Let me see," began the healer, as he separated the cloth and peered at the wound in the dim light. "The claws run deep, it needs cleaning with water we do not have," he murmured, ripping a strip of cloth from the lining of his cloak to dress it as best he could. Legolas sucked in a long breath for it stung with a vengeance. Gildor's strong hand fell upon Glorfindel's shoulder, their eyes momentarily locking in quiet understanding.

"We have been lucky," murmured the healer as he subconsciously patted the king's shoulder and moved to sit beside Galdithion. "We have sustained but minor injuries for the most part. However we should recall the horses and get ourselves out of here," he ground out in angered frustration, "to Crossmoor soon, for the risk of infection is great – I do not need to instruct you on where those beasts may have stuck their paws before getting to us…"

"Enough, be still" said Galdithion testily, grimacing at the healer's incessant prodding.

"Enough of the prodding or the thought of…"

"Both – stop it!" he said quietly.

Silence returned to the circle as each of the king's men processed the events of the attack, and the surprising ease with which the beasts had hunted them, cloaked inside the strange mist that seemed to house them.

"Are they wolves?" asked Gildor, bending closer to the fire and inhaling the sweet aroma from the burning shrubs they used as fuel, his silver hair falling around his hunched shoulders.

"Aye, wolves, and yet of a strain I have never seen," muttered Legolas. "They are larger, bulkier, their manes longer and the whites of their eyes tainted a sickly yellow," he said, his face covered with a light sheen of sweat, even though his face was a little further from the fire.

"Their claws too are longer," added Galdithion, sharper, as are their teeth," he added, grimacing as his shoulder twinged painfully.

"'Tis clear these beasts are not a natural result of nature," concluded Glorfindel. "They are surely agents of darkness, twisted and spoiled. It seems whoever watches over these lands has deemed we are a threat."

"And that we are," said Legolas with hard resolve.

"Aye, that we are," echoed Glorfindel with a faint smile upon his lips.

They fell into silence once more, and as time passed by, sleep crept upon them, and Legolas's eyes began to droop as Gildor's lost their focus. Elladan, however, was not ready for sleep, for a nagging question had been gnawing at him since before the attack when that unmistakable feeling of foreboding had come across him. If he had not been interrupted, what would he have seen? he mused, his dark brows furrowing deeply.

Neither he nor his brother were prone to episodes of foresight, indeed he himself had only ever had two, neither of which had been of any great consequence. Yet Elladan had the feeling that this time would have been different, for his gut has twisted violently and his breath had become labored, as if a great boulder sat upon his chest.

Sighing to himself, his eyes strayed to Legolas, who lay still beside Gildor, before moving to where he assumed the horizon to be.

His voice cut through the silence like a burning spear, startling his companions upright once more.

"Light, there is light up ahead… there are travelers upon the plains."

Before long, they had all seen the dim light of a nascent fire – they were not alone; indeed their position could not have been more than 30 minutes away. They must have heard the attack, realized Elladan, had waited until it had finished to light their own fire. They were locals, he concluded, travelers accustomed to these plains and its inhabitants and he wondered if it was the group that Gildor's sharp eyes had tracked earlier that afternoon.

He turned towards the Lorien constable in silent question.

"Perhaps it is," anticipated Gildor. "And if it is, I wonder if it is in our benefit to cross their path…"

"Not in the darkness," warned Glorfindel. "We will see what dawn brings with it – track them from afar and then decide the wisdom of it."

They all nodded their agreement as they slowly sat back, arranging their cloaks beneath them and then gingerly laying their battered bodies to the unyielding ground, all except Elladan, who only then realized that Legolas had stayed upon the ground. Puzzled, he moved over the king and placed a torn and scratched hand upon his brow.

"Glorfindel."

The High Constable resisted the urge to jump at Elladan's quiet yet alarmed voice.

"Legolas burns with a fever - infection, or poison, I cannot say."

His fiery eyes widened in subdued alarm. They could not move on foot in this darkness, and they could not recall the horses until daylight prevailed once more. And neither could they approach the strangers up ahead, for who knew their origin – their motives – their allegiances…

Adding more of the dry shrubs to the fire, Glorfindel watched the tiny orange sparks that hovered fleetingly above the flames, flames that made his eyes sparkle, almost as if they came from within.

Nay there was no choice but to wait out the darkness, and move at first light, however much his heart warred with his logical mind. With luck their horses would have suffered no harm, and they would be at Crossmoor for the midday meal – yet even as he thought it, he could not quite bring himself to believe his own words.


	4. Darkness Weaves its Madness

Chapter Three: Darkness Weaves its Madness

His body strained to its limits, lungs heaving painfully and yet no air entered them as his diaphragm stretched so that he thought it would burst. He could feel his face throbbing, his throat constricting as his eyes bulged in paralyzing horror, until terrible finality struck and he lay in shock at the certainty of his own, agonizing death. Finally, lack of air sent the world spiraling away and his eyes lost focus, only to sharpen once more upon his own pallid face, laying upon a silent battlefield; still – unmoving.

Horror surged through him once more and he screamed his own name, shaking his own, inert body which lay upon a bloodied field of battle. His face was turned to one side, as if in those final moments, he had given up, powerless to fight what he had known was his fate. He was dead - and yet he was conscious, staring at his own lifeless body.

He studied himself in macabre fascination, his head tilting to one side as he sought frantically to understand. He was _dead_, and yet here he knelt, staring down upon himself - an elf with pale, flawless skin which had once glowed with vibrant life. His features were well proportioned and attractive to the eye, if a little stern; his ear was finely pointed and his hair long and silky, a luscious river of blue-black satin. He knew himself a good elf, a good warrior – loyal and brave, indeed had he not died for the elven High King - Herald that he was, or rather had been?

Sadness took him of a sudden and he cried for the loss of himself, wondering why his spirit still lingered, if that indeed, was what he now was. Reaching out with one hand, he straightened his own dead limbs tenderly, as tears flooded his silvery eyes. Pulling his lax head to the front, he suddenly pulled back his hand in abject terror, as if burnt - stumbling backwards and then scrambling even further away until he sat sprawled awkwardly, his heart racing in his chest, eyes staring in disbelief as his guts twisted in disgust.

One side of his face was a mass of mangled flesh and bone, his lips ripped right to a completely rounded ear, revealing the white bone of his jaw and the rotting teeth within. Bile rose to the back of his throat and burned like sulfur but he could not rip his eyes away from the gruesome sight. This was the face of a human, rotten and mutilated. It was the face of a traitor, one allied with darkness – this was not _him_, not Elladan … and yet it _was_, he realized in mounting panic, until all breath left his body and he wailed in horrified shock at what he was, what lay inside him, latent, like a leech, sucking on his essence from the inside.

He was tainted, unworthy of immortal trust - not a pure, courageous warrior but a half-breed, half monster that would turn on his brothers, his king - his own lover…

His body jerked violently and he opened his eyes to the dim orange hue of a dying fire, before which a blond warrior sat staring at him intently, knowingly – Glorfindel.

He took steadying breaths, until he finally nodded at his watcher, silently assuring him that he was well, albeit his chest still heaved and a terrible anxiety still gripped him. The dream had shaken him to the core, for it revealed a state of mind he had never truly felt, not in any significant way.

He had never thought himself impure or less skilled than his elven companions, in spite of his minute human heritage. True he had wondered for a time if that insignificant drop of mortality would have any weight in his life, distract him from his path, or perhaps manifest itself in a way he could not predict. Yet now, he wondered if perhaps, those feelings ran deeper than he had ever realized, for if not, why would he dream such a thing, where had this seed of doubt sprang from? Even now his stomach throbbed painfully as his mind chanted over and over again, – 'twas but a dream, only a _dream_.

….

His mouth was as dry and his eyelids heavy. His head thudded and his chest throbbed with lingering anxiety in the aftermath of the horrific nightmares that had inexplicably assailed him throughout the night.

The fuzziness would not lift from him, and as he propped himself up on one elbow, the dull morning sky spun and then tilted sickeningly until his stomach turned, sending his face the same ashen grey colour of the ruined land he lay upon. Lying back down, he slowly opened his eyes once more, only to find the finely chiseled features of Elladan leaning over him, his brow furrowed as his eyes searched. Had he not known better, he would have thought it Elrond there above him.

"Legolas?" said Elladan in that authoritative healer's voice that compelled one to answer.

"Yes, yes, I am alright," he murmured, a little irritated, feeling strong arms lift him into a half-sitting position, his back now supported by a strong chest. Golden hair fell about his face, reassuring him that Glorfindel was still _alive_, had not been dismembered by Sauron before his very eyes…

He closed his eyes in relief, relishing the contact for just a moment, and then smiling a little as his own fine hairs fluttered in the wake of his lover's hot breath… His wandering mind was pulled back to the present as heat seeped into his slightly shaking hands. A warm cup lay there and Elladan's hands covered his own, prompting him to drink.

Elladan had concocted the brew with their supplies, happily returned to them with their steeds with the first rays of veiled light, and as he sat back upon his heels, the healer watched as his patient swallowed it down, and although Glorfindel grimaced in shared disgust, Elladan managed a somewhat sinister smirk, watching as his king's adam's apple bobbed once and then twice, and then the smile broadened.

Legolas' eyebrows arched as he sat the empty cup beside him, intending to make a sarcastic remark about sadistic healers, but something in his friend's countenance stopped him, and instead, he asked a question of his own.

"You should take a draught of this too, my friend, for you do not look well."

Galdithion's hair whipped after his head as it jerked towards Elladan, looking for the truth in Legolas' words.

"Peace," said Elladan, before Galdithion could ask if he had been injured and sought to hide it from them. "I am not injured, I merely did no sleep peacefully, he said a little lower, his eyes flickering momentarily towards Glorfindel.

Gildor snorted, "then that makes two of us!" he said, "it has been long since I was plagued with dreams of foreboding, death and destruction, of my own _grandfather_…" he trailed off, not quite ready to tell the story, and just a little surprised that he had shared that snippet of information of his own accord.

Legolas watched them all as they stared at Gildor in muted shock, until understanding dawned on his blunt senses.

"It seems we all suffered another battle last night," he said softly, his eyes settling upon Glorfindel, whose face was turned to the ground.

"He could not vanquish us in physical battle, and so he sought to grind us down, bring to the fore our own inner battles, twisting and accentuating them, playing on our fears…for I would wager that was the nature of your dreams… was it not?" asked Legolas once more.

"I was the commander of a mighty army," began Galdithion softly, pensively as he recounted his dream, as if only then analyzing its meaning. "Thousands upon thousands of battle-ready elves waiting for my command to attack, their armor of such splendor my eyes have never seen, yet as the swarms of orcs approached, I spoke not. My mind screamed at me to call the charge and yet I could not speak – until we were overcome, cut down, dismembered, disemboweled, my friends, my family, my…" his voice wavered and Galdithion's lovely face lingered on Elladan, whose own eyes saddened at what had undoubtedly been on the brink of slipping from the Sylvan's quivering lips.

It was Gildor who continued with his own tale, partly to break the uncomfortable silence that followed the young Greenwood constable's tale and ensuing display of emotion, but also because he felt the need to spew it out, rid himself of the strange depression that twisted his innards, however uncharacteristic of him it was.

"I wore a crown of lordship, and yet I stood naked before the whole of Elvendom as my own grandfather flogged me brutally until my flesh was all but gone, hanging from my bones in tattered strips fit for the carrion birds. And yet I moved, was alive, movements hideous and unnatural, arms open in search of comfort, from anyone – from _him_…" he trailed off, eyes bright. Glorfindel's eyes lingered upon him, for so rare it was for Gildor to reveal his insecurities in the way he just had. It was a testimony to just how intrusive, how utterly real and malicious their visions had been.

Legolas sighed deeply, yet instead of telling his own tale, he lay back for a moment, reveling once more in the fleeting moment of comfort he knew he had, before they must mount up and leave. Glorfindel too, snaked a strong arm discreetly around his middle, pulling him into his chest and dropping his head into Legolas' hair, breathing deeply before moving back once more. Legolas surmised that the nature of his lovers' dreams had been similar to his own, for their weakness was their devotion to each other, and yet paradoxically, it was also their strength.

He groaned in pain as his leggings were mercilessly stretched open and the bandage discarded, revealing the puffed up claw marks upon his thigh. It hurt with a vengeance – infected, he knew, just as he knew what was to come. Indeed Elladan's eyes flickered to Glorfindel behind him and Legolas knew he should brace himself.

When the procedure was finally over, Legolas was left panting and sweating, as another cup was pushed into his shaking hands. Thirst drove him on, as he took down the contents in two gulps. Glorfindel's hand smoothed across his brow as he whispered, "rest for a moment while we gather camp."

A surge of gratefulness washed through Legolas, joy that it had only been a dream, not some sordid vision of things to come – it was a vulgar trick the dark lord had played upon them all and yet it had stunned him. He had been tortured at the black gates, before Glorfindel and the elven army he commanded. With every hurt that had been inflicted upon Legolas, Glorfindel had screamed, screamed until his throat was raw and no sound would leave it, held back by many arms, and forced to watch in frantic heartache as his king's hair was chopped off, his face sliced open, his fingers bent backwards until they snapped through skin. Glorfindel's hand had eventually found its mark and had swiped a dagger from a Uruk Hai's belt, and then plunged it into his own throat … he could not even continue to replay the rest of it, for he knew he would falter if he did.

Pulling himself together as best he could, he rose unsteadily to his feet, fighting the vertigo that threatened to send him crashing to the ground. The solid arms of Glorfindel and Gildor steadied him until he could stand on his own and he nodded his thanks at Galadriel's kinsman, an elf he had yet to fully understand, yet was growing to appreciate, and respect, not only as an occasional lover, but as a warrior, as one of his most trusted. If only the elf could rid himself of the latent resentment that came with the loss of his heart's desire, to his king, no less.

Once mounted, Legolas' eyes fell upon Elladan, who still knelt upon the plain, staring at the strange bushes they had used as fuel for their fire. Reaching out his hand, he plucked a bunch of the ugly branches and held them before his eyes, his head moving in to sniff cautiously at it as his gaze raked over the specimen. That characteristic shrewd expression came over his herald, one Legolas recognized in his friend when he was deeply pondering something. Wrapping the specimen in a cloth, he placed it in his satchel and mounted his horse, and Legolas wondered if perhaps he meant to take it to his father.

Elladan's horse stood so close to Legolas' that their boots scraped together, and as Glorfindel signaled their departure with a wave of his hand, he stared at Elladan for a moment, before nodding at the herald in silent command. Legolas' heart swelled with pride, for in spite of his injury, Glorfindel had not treated Legolas in any way differently from the rest of his men, – and yet the light that shone from his lovely eyes could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was. And so, as Legolas rejoiced, Gildor damned the Valar for the day his lover had lost his heart to a warrior king, destroying his own for the rest of his immortal life.

…

An opaque sun sat high above their heads when Glorfindel gave the signal to dismount. They had journeyed without rest for hours, and Legolas had drifted into controlled reverie, always under the careful eye of the healer herald.

Elladan dismounted quickly, offering his own arms up to help his now waking king to the ground. Just as Legolas' brow furrowed and his mouth opened to protest, Elladan gave him a stern look, "don't," he said authoritatively – and Legolas didn't. Behind them, Galdithion snorted and then quickly schooled his features as the king shot him a scathing glare. Gildor simply grimaced in sympathy at his Greenwood colleague, before winking at him cockily and walking away to set their midday camp.

Soon upon the ground and chewing slowly on their now meager supplies, Gildor broke the air of tiredness and underlying anxiety that the nightmares had left in their wake.

"There it is – Crossmoor at last," he said smoothly, relief oozing from his words.

"Aye, another half day I would reckon…'tis a larger place than I had imagined," added the High Constable somewhat lightly, a pensive silence descending upon them as they ate thoughtfully, their eyes fixed upon the distant fortification.

Elladan however, watched Legolas as he broke small chunks of lembas from his wafer. His trained eyes registered every movement, every expression upon his face. He was better save for an irritating pain in his thigh that lent him a visible limp, and a paleness that showed the exhaustion that comes after a fever. Not poison then, he finally concluded to himself, for he had considered that possibility, yet had gradually discarded it as Legolas' fever had abated and no other symptoms were forthcoming. Soon, he would be able to take a bath and sink into a bed for an uninterrupted night's rest, they _all_ would, but as his eyes glanced over to the town they were headed for, he wondered if that was simple wishful thinking.

A wall ran the entire width of the place, only the highest roofs visible from behind the enclosure. It must be high, he mused, and then wondered why they would need such a fortification here.

"You are thinking the same as I, I would wager," came Glorfindel's deep, mellow voice, his gaze searching. "'Tis strange they should defend themselves so well in these lands. From what I understand there have been but uncoordinated raids by small bands of orcs, nothing that would merit such engineering…" he trailed off, his eyes momentarily straying to Gildor, who turned to face him.

When last I travelled these lands, not two years past, the walls were lower, and flimsier; this is recent, Glorfindel. Something has happened very recently.

"Is it true, do you think?" asked Galdithion tentatively, "the Dark One has cast his eyes on this place? I mean everything points to it – Hwindo has said the fire that burned this land was unholy, just as those fetid beasts were. And then our nightmares, the mist … 'tis not normal, not natural…"

"Nay it is not," replied Glorfindel, his eyes sliding sideways to the Greenwood constable for a moment before anchoring themselves on Elladan, who sat pensively. Suddenly feeling the weight of ages upon him, Elladan spoke for the first time since they had stopped.

"I believe…he began, thinking as he spoke, "I believe this place is a trap, land that has been twisted to the wiles of darkness, so that enemies cannot approach – or leave…"

"You are implying there is a threat here – something that _he_ believes a danger?" asked Gildor disbelievingly.

"I do, Gil, that is exactly what I think – 'tis more I will tell you what I _truly_ believe.," he said passionately now, leaning forward and establishing eye contact with them all. "Who, who could worry him so that he would risk exposing himself now? 'Tis a gamble he takes if our suppositions are correct, for this place could never have gone undetected for long …

Silence reigned, and then Legolas stiffened, frozen in almost painful realization, "the child, you believe it is the _child_... Rafno, remember your day of rebirth? When you chose your path? The vision the Valar bestowed upon you…"

Elladan froze for a moment, for he had not imagined that Legolas would see it as clearly as he himself did.

"Yes, that is what I believe – it _must_ be. It all fits," muttered Elladan, so low the others leaned a little closer. "An elven High King, a great warrior and a Herald concurred upon the sky and faced a king of men to the North, a great star upon his brow. All those conditions have been met, for Glorfindel is High Constable, and I Herald, our Hwindo High King – we are missing only the king of men, a king from the North …"

The solemnity of the moment was thoroughly broken by Gildor. "I find this somewhat far-fetched I will admit. The alignment of the stars," he snorted, "such fantastic stories are told of gods sailing the skies in ships, of warriors and their hunters, avenging angels and dark demons. It surprises me that _you_ would think this way, Glorfindel," he added, tentatively almost.

Glorfindel's brow creased in confusion, for the comment had been a flimsy attachment, one meant not to inform, but to criticize, not only Legolas, but Elladan too. He had thought Gildor's 'issues' resolved, and yet that simple sentence had set him thinking once more.

"And your explanation for all this is…?" prompted Galdithion a little sarcastically, for the quip had not been lost on him at all.

"I have none, Gal," he answered simply. I will admit that it seems the Dark One is indeed interested in this area, although why – I cannot say, _will_ not until more information is forthcoming, and you would _all_ do well to follow suit."

"Tis enough that we are in agreement that this land is of importance, that we should all be wary, with eyes and _minds _open," contributed Legolas, eager to halt the conversation before its undercurrents waxed any stronger. "Once we have provisioned ourselves and gathered our intelligence as to the whereabouts of the rangers, we will leave Crossmoor in search of the truth, and if it _is_ true," he said slowly, his voice hardening as his eyes raked over them all, before descending heavily upon Gildor, "– we must get him out of here – and soonest…"

…..

Their journey had continued not long after, and Elladan's mind wandered to their lunchtime conversation and its strange undercurrents. It was clear that Gildor's frustration had momentarily broken through his icy exterior, showing the vulnerability beneath – something Elladan was sure the Lorien Constable had not wanted.

He still wanted Glorfindel, that much was clear to him at least, and, he assumed to Legolas. He also remembered that the three of them were not adverse to laying together on occasion, and he wondered how they could possibly make that work without worsening Gildor's feelings of jealousy and desire for the one he so obviously could never possess – indeed was it even wise to continue to fuel his desire and lust for Glorfindel?

And then Elladan suddenly understood – desire and lust yes, but there was more – Gildor still _loved_ Glorfindel and the three of them knew it, just like Llyniel and her unrequited love for the king, for Elladan knew Gildor's love unrequited.

And yet Llyniel was different – she was a politician, a negotiator, versed in the arts of legislating and problem solving. Her mind worked logically and with trained reason. Yet Gildor was a warrior – proud and honorable – he fought, fought the enemy and everything that meant misfortune to him, fought anything that stood in his way. And yet how does one fight a High King? One you have pledged your allegiance to? One you respect and follow…

And there it was. They lay together because that was the only happiness afforded to Gildor, a concession – and he _knew_ it. It could not be easy, realized Elladan; indeed it was surprising that nothing more important than an impudent comment had escaped his lips. And yet Elrond's son would be accepting no bets upon what the future may have in store for the three of them.

….

Not half an hour later, and the company stood beside their horses, their eyes expertly raking the campsite where five bodies lay mutilated, twisted and stiffening upon the ground, immersed in the same thin ground mist that had lapped at their own feet when first they had stepped onto the plains. Their throats and chests had been gouged hollow, their glassy eyes staring lifelessly at the grey sky above.

Legolas eyes lost their focus for a moment, allowing his somewhat fuddled mind a modicum of freedom. The mist was a carrier of some kind, he suggested to himself, a container of sorts that could veil and confuse, yet now it seemed to the king that it fed, or perhaps thrived upon the dead flesh of its victims. Shaking his head a little, he put that last little macabre thought down to his fever drained body.

He snapped back to the present as Glorfindel passed him, squeezing his shoulder as he did so. Gildor, Elladan and Galdithion followed as Legolas watched them, bending here and there, searching, collecting information on who they had been, their origins, their purpose. Indeed soon the five warriors stood in a tight circle around the king, reporting their findings and making their conclusions.

"One is of Eastern origin I would wager," said Glorfindel, recognizing the darker complexion, the thicker features.

"And yet, began Gildor, "the others are locals, either from Crossmoor, or perhaps Dunland."

"They are not warriors," said Galdithion, his brow deeply furrowed, "and yet they are well-armed. Their weapons, however, are of poor design and production, and do not seem to be of the same design. Yet neither are they hunters, for they carry no provisions for cleaning and skinning…"

"Could they be farmers from outlying villages, in search of provisions in Crossmoor?" asked Legolas.

"Perhaps," said Gildor, "and yet what business has a man from the East in these parts? 'Tis not so frequent…"

"Eight…" murmured Legolas.

"What?" asked Glorfindel, turning to Legolas, and then following his line of sight.

"Eight horses, five bodies – there are three left somewhere between here and Crossmoor…." concluded Glorfindel. "These are the men that left those tracks that Gil spotted."

"We should leave," murmured Legolas quietly. "There is nothing we can do for them. They are in the hands of their Gods, if they believe in such," he murmured once more, and Elladan turned towards him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, and when Legolas' eyes alighted on those of his Herald, the Noldo jerked his head towards the patiently awaiting horse, face stern, eyes disapproving, for he would not have missed the tiredness that radiated from his friend.

…..

Not ten minutes later, the five warriors caught up with the three remaining humans. They had seen them from afar, and heard their clumsy feet as they trudged wearily in rigorous single file. Their clothing was ragged and dull, and each one carried a misshapen sack upon his back. They still had a way to go before reaching Crossmoor, and Glorfindel was already weighing up his options.

His conscience dictated they should accompany them, allow them to ride with them, yet he had no wish for these humans to get so close. If they _were_ rogues, they would be observant, and perhaps see something they shouldn't… and yet if they passed them by, for one they had already been seen and could be sought after for retaliation once at Crossmoor, and secondly, at the speed they travelled, darkness would fall before they reached the city walls. A brief glance at his comrades told him it was an inevitable decision, and that just like him, they liked it not at all.

They were soon spotted by the sorry group, and the three men turned in a half-hearted attempt to defend themselves, their strange weapons held defensively before them, their eyes bulging as their feet inched backwards, away from the daunting cloaked and mounted figures that now surrounded them.

"We will leave," shouted one, who clumsily threw the sword he had been brandishing in his hand, the others following his lead.

"And why would we have you leave?" asked Glorfindel calmly.

"We will not bother you, just allow us to leave…"

"You are injured, where would you go?" he asked once again, his brows furrowing under the ample hood that hid his features.

"Surely 'tis no concern of yours…" he almost laughed, totally baffled at why the rider would worry about their well-being.

"Do you require assistance to reach Crossmoor?" asked Glorfindel, his voice still as monotonous as it had been from the start.

"You, ah, eh – wish to _help_?" asked the man, disbelief dripping from his shaky words.

"Should you require it…" reiterated a now irritated High Constable.

Turning, the man chuckled nervously at his two companions, before all three cautiously approached the one that spoke to them.

"We would well appreciate your help sirs, as you say, we are injured and without provisions see…" he said, confidence creeping into his voice now. We wouldn't make it home before the dark, and we'd be sitting ducks for them Moor Wolves…

At a nod from Glorfindel, Elladan, Galdithion and Gildor urged their steeds forward slowly, each extending a cautious arm down to the men. Clasping them, the humans were hoisted up effortlessly behind their hosts, the contents of their bulky brown sacks clanking upon their backs as they settled.

Soon, they were cantering towards Crossmoor and the unknown, and Glorfindel swore to himself that they would not stop, for however much he wanted Legolas to rest, he would not risk being in the company of these men for any longer than necessary.

Even now, as Glorfindel watched their leader's beady eyes rake over Legolas' cloak, hood, only to linger a while longer upon his boots, the faster his breathing became, the hotter his face, and the tighter his knuckles closed around his steed's reins… and had he been able to see under Gildor's hood, he would, perhaps, have been surprised at the expression that was fixed there, one that was identical to his own.


End file.
